


No Chain, No Lock (No Fear, No Doubt)

by saekokato



Series: Slayer'verse [2]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-14
Updated: 2008-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekokato/pseuds/saekokato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Neither of us are all-knowing, sweetheart, and they were dead before we knew what was happening here. They invited the demons in; they got eaten. End of story."</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Chain, No Lock (No Fear, No Doubt)

Bob wraps the bandage carefully around Frank's wrist. For all that Frank has an inability to sit still when Bob would really, really like him to - say in the middle of meetings or dinner or when they're trying to watch a movie or researching into the next great apocalypse - it never really surprises Bob that Frank can be so utterly motionless like this.

"Stop feeling fucking guilty," Bob mutters. He puts the extra bandages away and fusses with the first aid kit, which is running low again. He rubs a hand over his head, over the newly shorn hair, and tries to remember if the duffel in the van still has any extra, well, anything or if they need to restock again before they leave town. There's a voicemail from Ray and Brian about something in Arizona and, given Frank's inability to stay out of trouble for ten fucking minutes, Bob would rather not make the thousand mile drive with only a couple bandaids and half a tube of dated first aid ointment.

Frank shifts off the toilet behind Bob, pauses at Bob's back like he's going to touch him, but then he moves away, back into the main room. "Shut up."

Bob rolls his eyes. Frank and his fucking melodrama. Bob is never as glad that Gerard and Frank couldn't work together all the time - that much melodrama and Bob would've killed them both before any of the various denizens of evil could have - than he is in these moments. Bob loves the guy, but sometimes he's just fucking special.

In the completely retarded way.

Bob packs up the last of the kit before following Frank. The kit goes back in the duffel with the hundred pounds of books and general reference material shit that Bob prefers to have on hand. What's left of both of their shirts goes into the dirty laundry bag. Bob'll go through it all later and see if there's anything worth salvaging. What isn't will be washed and cut up for rags or bandages or whatever else they might possibly need them for. What is he'll pass over to Frank to fix up.

Frank is stretched out on the bed, remote in hand, flipping through the ten channels of fuzzy porn and three channels of reality tv this motel gets. He pauses long enough on each station for a single sound byte to come through, then he's off to the next. The resulting sound vaguely resembles the harsh grating language of the group of demons they'd just flushed out of the local Y for killing a couple of coeds. That particular species of demon was of the more decent sect of demons, though unfortunately highly territorial. A YMCA, with its amount of turnover, wasn't really the best place for that group to settle down.

"Frank, stop. Seriously." Bob receives a glare for his efforts, but at least Frank turns off the tv. Bob returns the glare with one of his own and Frank backs off after a minute, swinging his feet off the bed and sitting up so that his back is to Bob. Bob watches Frank, noting the tense lines along Frank's shoulders and spine and the movement of shadow over the colorful lines of ink, waiting. There's nothing Bob can say here that won't start a fight, and that's the last thing either of them want to deal with right now.

"If you're gonna yell, would you mind getting it over with?" Frank finally asks. Bob hates his tone of voice. Its the same one he's heard Frank use in confessional booths, asking for the absolution, the forgiveness he doesn't believe he deserves.

"I'm not going to yell, Frank." Bob sits down at the end of the bed, Frank in his peripheral vision. He rubs his hand over his head again: he can't get used to the feeling of the buzzcut, not after growing it out for so long.

Frank shifts. "You should. I'd deserve it."

Bob hears a scritch-pop sound, knows that Frank is pulling at the seams in his jeans again. Frank has some odd nervous habits. Bob stays quiet.

A few minutes pass before Bob hears a soft ripping sound, followed by Frank's angry sigh. "I shouldn't have gone in alone. I know. But I couldn't wait outside, not knowing. I just. I couldn't, Bob."

Bob turns his head in time to see Frank hit his own thigh with a tight fist. His uninjured hand. Frank curls up on himself after that, hands cradling his head, elbows on his knees. "Didn't matter anyway. They were..."

"There was nothing we could have done," Bob interrupts. He shifts, drawing his leg up onto the bed so he could turn more toward Frank. "They were dead before we checked in last week."

Frank shakes his head. "No. I should have known. I should have..."

"Should have what, Frank? Been born a Seer? Had a prophecy, a fucking dream of what was to come?" Bob snorts. He hates this conversation, hates that they have it every time this happens. Fucking Frank and his fucking melodrama. "Neither of us are all-knowing, sweetheart, and they were dead before we knew what was happening here. They invited the demons in; they got eaten. End of story."

"No." Frank turns to glare at Bob.

"Yes." Bob just watches Frank.

Finally Frank gives up, turns to glare at the wall instead. "Don't care what you say, it was my fault," he mutters petulantly.

Bob rolls his eyes. "Please. The dent in the fender is your fault. The fact that you can't stop groping me in public is your fault. That you went charging in there without waiting for me is your fault." He reaches over and smacks Frank upside the head. "People acting like idiots is not your fault."

Frank blinks at Bob for a second, then growls, launching himself at Bob. Bob lets himself be taken down, controlling their fall to the floor and letting Frank work out some of his excess energy. When Frank finally graduates from shrieking vowel sounds to actual words again, Bob rolls them over and pins Frank to the floor. He cuts off another "your momma" joke with a rough kiss, pouring every ounce of the anger, fear, and worry he'd felt in the last twelve hours into it.

When he pulls back, Frank is grinning at him and has both his legs wrapped around Bob's hips. "Aww. I always knew that you loved me! Just never knew it was..." Frank rolls his hips up against Bob's and waggles his eyebrows at him. "So big!" Frank's seduction techniques never really grew past the eighth grade, and Bob is sometimes ashamed that they'd actually worked on him.

Bob sighs and drops his head against Frank's chest. "Jesus, Frank. Stop being an ass."

"I will only if you fuck mine," Frank says. Or at least he starts to say. He gets to the "you" and starts giggling like the spastic monkey that he is. Its only because Bob has known Frank for so long that he's able to translate the last half of the sentence. Bob knows that Frank is likely to keep wisecracking for the rest of the night, so he does the only thing he can to shut him up.

He fucks him. Right there on the dirty, nasty motel carpet. Sometimes Bob isn't very proud of himself; other times he very, very much is.

When Bob finally has Frank exhausted enough to not be making anymore "your momma" jokes, they're both curled up under the covers, Frank's head tucked under Bob's chin. Frank is tracing lazy patterns over Bob's chest.

"I am sorry, ya know?" Frank sighs, tapping a finger against Bob's collarbone.

"I know. Just don't do it again," Bob snorts, leaning his head down to nose at Frank's hair. Frank hums something in agreement, and Bob's eyes slip closed. They have a thousand miles to travel in a couple of days and a list longer than Frank's leg to finish before they do. Bob'll take care of it all in the morning.


End file.
